


Shirtless in New York

by EllaStorm



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M, Shenanigans, stolen shirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Johnny Storm has officially embraced his inner nerd and made it into the papers. Peter Parker wants his shirts back. Breaking-and-entering happens. Everyone wins.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meereswiederkaeuer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=meereswiederkaeuer).



> This story was written as an x-mas present for the wonderful @meereswiederkaeuer who has been loving and drawing SpideyTorch for quite some time now. You can check her work out on tumblr, it's truly amazing:
> 
> http://meereswiederkaeuer.tumblr.com/
> 
> Merry Christmas!

Peter Parker was not annoyed. No, not at all.

Peter Parker was absolutely fucking furious.

His eyes had been glued to the newspaper article for about ten solid minutes, before he'd stormed off through the house, crashed into his room and started ransacking his wardrobe. Despite the sprawling chaos of sweaters, trousers and shirts in his cabinet he could tell fairly soon that some of his most precious items were missing – and that was before he found the innocuous slip of paper right between two pairs of his favourite jeans, reading:

 

_Borrowed some. Hope you don’t mind. In case you do anyway, get your panties out of that twist. They look good on me._

Peter clenched his jaw and tried very hard not to punch and/or kick any innocent piece of furniture, though he found it exceedingly difficult. He attempted cussing, but couldn’t really think of a word for that sort of nerve. Not only had Johnny Storm very obviously broken into Peter’s house, no, he had also stolen his favourite shirts (that were, by the way, not one but _two_ sizes too small for him) and was now wearing them excessively enough to make it onto the front page of a _newspaper_ of all things. Peter balled his hands into fists. Evil masterminds, global catastrophes and all potentially impending apocalypses aside, he was going to get his shirts back.

Right. Now.

***

 

Luckily enough, Johnny’s room was situated only a few blocks away – hardly a distance when one was a net-throwing air acrobat with a hefty dose of anger in his stomach. Peter hadn’t really thought about what exactly he was going to do when he’d arrive at his destination: something that he of course noticed the exact moment he landed on the windowsill outside Johnny’s room. A short edge of shock turned into relief when he found said room before him empty. That made things a lot easier. He’d just have to get in, grab his shirts, and then off he’d go. Maybe he’d leave a little message for Johnny in his own right along the way. Or steal all his jeans. There were many possibilities for revenge, and Peter considered a few of them as he climbed through the unlocked window into the room and went straight for Johnny’s wardrobe.

The first thing he noticed upon opening was how messy it was. Shirts and trousers and all sorts of other things had been mindlessly stuffed into its compartments, tangled with each other, hardly distinguishable. Anyway, he was _not_ going to leave without his shirts, and if he’d have to to dig through Johnny Storm’s entire wardrobe for them, he would damn well dig through Johnny Storm’s entire wardrobe. True to his intent Peter pulled the first piece of fabric out – and dropped it immediately, after it turned out to be a pair of tight black boxer shorts. Some part of Peter’s brain (a part he _hated_ with a vengeance) gave him a quick, completely unasked for peek at what Johnny probably looked like wearing them…

He banished the image from his head in the span of a second; but the short diversion had stopped him from paying attention to his surroundings, and when his elevated hearing sensed the click of a lock and the soft step of bare feet on the carpet right behind him, it was already way too late.

Peter slammed the cabinet shut and swung around, infinitely glad about the fact that his mask was hiding the flush that was undoubtedly creeping up his neck. Johnny Storm himself was looking at him with an expression that didn’t really show surprise, merely mild amusement; and Peter noticed, just then, that Johnny was half-naked.

Well, three-quarters-naked, to be more precise. He seemed to have sprung fresh from the shower, indicated by the wet strands of blond hair framing his face, and the small drops of water clinging to his absurdly toned body. The only thing he had put on was a low-slung towel around his hips to cover up the bare necessities.

Peter felt his mouth go a little slack. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Johnny saw right through him, despite the well-placed mask, because he was smiling now, more than just a little smugly; and that in turn reminded Peter of the fact that he was actually really, really pissed-off for very good reason, so he crossed his arms in front of his chest and cleared his throat.

 

“Where are my shirts?” he asked, firmly and fiercely. Or at least he hoped that it sounded firm and fierce. Rather than teenage-girl awe-struck.

Johnny’s smile deepened. “You broke in?”

Peter huffed. “Actually, _you_ broke in. To steal _my_ shirts. I want them back. And I want an explanation.”

“Didn’t you read my note?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. But _They look good on me_ is not a sound reason for anything in life, even though that might come as a surprise to you.”

 

Johnny was grinning now, and Peter had the strong urge to either punch him right in the face, or… Or… “They don’t even fit you!” he exclaimed. “They are too small, and if there’s anything you don’t have, it’s an _inner nerd_. You wearing them is just plain disrespectful! To – to the community.”

His opposite raised an eyebrow. “The community?”

“Yes, the community of– Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m not going to justify wanting my own damn shirts back! That you probably stretched out beyond recognition with your ridiculous-” Peter noticed what he was about to say just in time to shut his mouth and leave the sentence unfinished. His face was probably redder than his suit at this point. Johnny, to make matters worse, slowly took a few steps towards him. His grin had deteriorated a little, but some of it was still there, in the corners of his blue, blue eyes.

Peter stepped back in turn until he could feel the wooden door of the wardrobe cool against his shoulder blades through the skin-tight suit. This whole situation was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, and some panicky voice inside his head advised him to make a dive for the window, before…

 

“Have you considered the possibility that this isn’t actually about the shirts?”, Johnny asked, very carefully.

“I know it’s not. It’s about driving me up the wall.”

“Oh, you don’t need my help for that, I think you’re getting up there very well by yourself,” Johnny snickered, and Peter glared at him.

“I should have known. You’re an actual twelve-year-old.”

“You think so?”

“Insufferable. Lame puns. Cluttered wardrobe. That’s some good evidence.”

Johnny had stopped giggling. He stepped closer still, until he was nearly invading Peter’s personal space, and his lips were curving upwards just slightly when he said:

“Will you just shut up and kiss me now?”

 

“ _What?”_ That hadn’t been a squeak. Peter Parker didn’t squeak.

“You heard me right.” Johnny took a last step forward, and Peter was way too dumbstruck to stop Johnny’s hands from stretching out and gently pulling the mask from his face.

“Your hair looks ridiculous,” Johnny said, no bite in his words, and then he kissed him, right on the lips, steadily, softly. It was nice. Very, very nice, actually; nice enough that Peter forgot all about the shirts for a few minutes, buried his hands in Johnny’s shower-wet hair and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue across Johnny’s lower lip and hungrily taking in the quiet moan the movement awarded him with. When he let go of him a little later, Peter was pleased to detect a tinge of red on Johnny’s cheeks, contrasted starkly by the black pools of his widened pupils.

“I’m so glad I stole your shirts,” he murmured. “Best plan ever.”

Peter frowned. “So this was planned? The note, the newspaper, me showing up here…”

“Nah. Totally winged it,” Johnny replied with a grin; and Peter couldn’t help the smile spreading all across his face. “Come here and kiss me again, you idiot.” 

“What about your shirts?”

“I will physically throw you out of the window if you don’t stop talking and kiss. Me. Now.”

“Fine. I’ll keep them, then.”

“You-“ The rest of the sentence got lost between Johnny’s lips. And, even though he’d never, ever, _ever_ officially permit it, Peter quietly arranged himself with the thought of not getting his shirts back again.

 

After all, they did look good on Johnny.

 

Kind of.


End file.
